


In Dreams

by mornmeril



Series: Merlin Bingo [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Age Difference, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fairy Tale Elements, Insomnia, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Reincarnation, some dumb choices regarding prescription drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: Arthur remembers on a Sunday, but Merlin isn't here. His dreams may yet lead Arthur to him.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2150004
Comments: 18
Kudos: 100
Collections: Merlin Bingo





	In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> i don't think this is what anyone expects from the square named 'Next Door Neighbours' (5c), but here it is XD. my first fill for Merlin Bingo :D!

Arthur remembers on a Sunday.

At first, he thinks it’s merely the aftereffects of yesterday’s almighty bender celebrating his 20th birthday. But as the throbbing in his temples is tempered by a dose of paracetamol and his head clears, Arthur realises that no. Either he’s managed to kill his remaining brain cells for good, or the entire lifetime worth of memories actually happened.

After that, he spends the better part of his remaining afternoon trying to keep his insides where they belong - though they’re certainly not making it easy.

And, kneeling on cold, hard tiles, slumped miserably over a cold, hard toilet bowl, there’s only one thought chasing its tail within his churning mind.

_Merlin should be here._

But Merlin isn’t here and Arthur’s stomach lurches, throat aching as he doubles over once more.

*

He doesn’t say anything, of course he doesn’t.

Arthur has plenty of friends, though if pressed he’d admit that the term is applied rather loosely. There’s certainly no one in his life he could imagine telling something like this.

His parents call him, likely to check that he’s not done himself in with alcohol poisoning. Arthur hurries through the conversation, head swimming as memories of a stern King lecturing him on the decorum of overindulgence overlap with his father’s good-natured ribbing.

When he hangs up, Arthur sees a single line from Pat, _You alive, you tosser?_

Arthur drops the phone into the sofa cushions without answering. It vibrates only once more, hours later, hours that Arthur has spent staring at the ceiling feeling small and lost.

He glances at his phone, dismissing the gazillion silent social media notifications. Pat’s single _Pen?_ almost drowned in the deluge.

Arthur presses down on the lock button, and holds. The phone goes dark.

_Merlin, where the hell are you?_

*

The dream is the same every night.

Arthur is back in Camelot, wakes in his old bed to his old things and the familiar view of the courtyard below his window. Always, the sun is already out, high and bright in the sky. It’s far later in the day than Arthur ever had the luxury to enjoy when he’d been a prince; certainly not as a king.

No one comes to wake him, or dress him, or bring him breakfast.

Arthur wanders around the castle like a museum, touches objects he recognises and some he doesn’t. He haunts the halls like a ghost, avoids the throne room like the plague, and eventually ends up in the same place without fail.

The bed is low and rickety. It creaks ominously as he shifts and buries his face in a lumpy pillow, sheets coarse and threadbare between his fingers and against his cheek. He inhales deeply, heart seizing as he desperately searches for the familiar scent.

But there’s nothing there, nothing at all.

_Merlin, please_.

*

When Arthur catches himself repeatedly reaching for a ring that’s no longer on his left forefinger, he capitulates and buys one.

It looks nothing at all like Ygraine’s, but when he slides it on, something slots into place in his chest all the same.

*

“Pen, what the fuck?”

Arthur sighs, unsurprised at the sight of Pat’s slender form braced within the confines of the doorway. He steps aside and Pat shoulders past, bumping into him in a way that manages to be both aggressive and companionable.

He supposes that if he were to apply the term ‘friend’ less loosely, Pat would be the only one to fit it.

They grew up together, same posh neighbourhood, same posh public schools; Eaton, now Oxford. They’re known as an entity, Pen and Pat, always up for a good time; a pub crawl, a flashy dance club, a house party that ends with an orgy in the pool. You name it, they’ve been there.

Arthur struggles to find a shred of meaning to his life, a purpose, _anything_. But all he can think about is Merlin, the way he’d always looked at Arthur - full of devotion, full of faith.

_All I know is that for your many faults, you’re honest, brave, and true-hearted. And one day you_ will _be the greatest king this land has ever known._

“Pen,” Pat snaps, tearing Arthur from his thought. “What the hell is going on with you, mate?”

Arthur closes the door, crosses to the open-plan kitchen and puts on the kettle simply for something to do.

“I’m fine.”

“The hell you are.” Pat’s brown eyes are boring into him. His hand clamps down on Arthur’s bare forearm, dark skin a sharp contrast against Arthur’s own. “Arthur.”

Arthur flinches.

No one calls him that, not even his parents. He’s always laughed it off, this squirmy feeling of discomfort.

_It’s an old man’s name, yeah?_ is what he always says whenever it comes up. _Just call me Pen. Everyone does._

It never occurred to him that the reason he hadn’t wanted anyone to call him by his name is that there’s only one person whose lips he wants to shape it, only one voice he wishes to hear it from.

“Arjun,” Arthur counters, satisfied when it elicits a grimace. He yanks his arm free, jerkily sloshing boiling water into the two waiting cups. “I said I’m fine.”

Pat arches an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the cups. “I can see that.”

Arthur glances down, lets out a harsh breath and a muttered _Fuck_. He forgot the tea bags.

He yanks open a cupboard, then lashes them into the cups, glaring defiantly, daring Pat to comment on it.

Pat doesn’t, just sighs and crosses over to the fridge. He roots around, making a face.

“Seriously?”

He’s holding up a carton of oat milk. Arthur shrugs, mouth tugging into a smirk.

Pat rolls his eyes, but waits until Arthur has fished out one of the tea bags. He leaves his own in the cup; there’s not enough caffein in the world for any of this shit. Pat dumps in some oat milk, not bothering to lift the carton between cups and sloshing a good amount onto the pristine counter.

“Jesus, Pat,” Arthur grouses, grabbing a towel.

He mops up the mess, taking longer than necessary. Eventually, however, he knows there’s no more escaping it. He picks up his cup and follows, throwing himself onto the other end of the couch.

“Now spill,” Pat orders. “What’s crawled up your arse and died? Did you get someone pregnant?”

“Fuck you, Patel.”

Despite popular opinion, Arthur prefers to keep his dick to himself. Or, at least, not to whip it out for just anyone at the drop of a hat like most of his uni mates are wont to. A fact Pat is very much aware of.

“In your dreams, Penbrook,” Pat shoots back with a grin.

At the mention of dreams, Arthur’s mood abruptly sours further. He glowers into the depths of his tea, knowing that if he can’t hold on to his irritation, he’ll end up sobbing into his cup. Tea and fucking sympathy.

Pat straightens, sobering. “Is that what it is? Are you having trouble sleeping again?”

That’s the thing about growing up with someone; they know all your dumb secrets. Well, not quite all of them, apparently, but enough.

Arthur gives a jerky nod, because what else is he supposed to say? _Actually, I recently found out that I’m the reincarnation of King Arthur and since then I’ve been hopelessly pining for Merlin. You know, the great, mythological wizard? Yeah, him._

Pat puts down his half-empty cup, eying him with a specific brand of concern Arthur hasn’t seen on him since they were kids.

“Have you told your parents? Do you need to go back on your meds?”

Arthur scowls, ready to bite his head off at the mere suggestion, when something stops him.

What if this is it? If he were to get his hands on some of those sleeping pills he used to hate taking, it might help prolong his dreams. Until now, Arthur hasn’t spent much time contemplating what he can do with his time in dream-Camelot, too busy wallowing curled up in a ball on Merlin’s old bed. But what if there’s something there? What if _Merlin_ is there?

Maybe the reason Arthur hasn’t found him is because he hasn’t been looking hard enough, too self-absorbed in his misery.

_Some king you are_ , Arthur thinks, sick with self-hatred.

Unbidden, he remembers those final days with Merlin, how determined Merlin had been, how hard he’d fought for Arthur. How he’d cared for him, cradling him close like the most precious thing.

If their roles were reversed, Merlin wouldn’t just lie down and give up. He’d be out there, searching, trying to find his way to Arthur’s side.

Hope and determination sear through his veins, urging his heart against his ribcage in an excited pattern.

“You know, I think I might. I’ll make an appointment with my doctor.”

Arthur declares it like a royal decree and Pat looks at him as though he’s lost his mind, but Arthur doesn’t care. Because for the first time, he truly feels like himself.

_Hang on, Merlin. I’m coming._

*

Of course things aren’t nearly as easy as all that and once the initial exhilaration wars off, Arthur isn’t half as convinced any of it will work.

But the determination remains and Arthur pushes forward with his plan. He tries very hard not to think about what he’ll do if it all comes to nothing.

He turns up at his family doctor’s practice frazzled and vibrating with anxiety. Add that to his medical history of aggressive insomnia and it’s laughably easy to convince her. He walks out triumphant, prescription in hand.

That evening - far earlier than anyone would consider a reasonable bedtime - Arthur sits at the edge of his bed, a nondescript pill in one sweaty palm, and a glass of cold water in the other. He doesn’t relish this part, not at all.

He still remembers the horrible side effects, the way he’d felt sluggish for hours after waking. How he’d conked out for random naps throughout the day. The way he’d lost his appetite and stared blankly into the distance only to blink back into reality with no idea of how much time had passed.

Tightening his grip, Arthur resolutely chucks the pill down his throat, sending a few erratic gulps of water after it.

He lies down, knowing that the pill needs some time to kick in, but that when it does, the effects will bear down on him like an anvil. Too many times than he can possibly count have found Arthur waking on various pieces of furniture (not to mention the floor), head twisted into angles that left his neck and shoulder in agony for days.

Breathing deeply, Arthur does his best to relax, to empty his mind.

He blinks slowly, eyes heavy. Then again.

And.

Again.

He squints.

The sunlight is bright and merciless, the heavy drapes along his window pushed to the side.

Arthur turns over, groaning, silk sheets rustling as he presses his face into a brocade pillow. Bloody Merlin, he forgot the shut the curtains. _Again_.

Has the morning bell sounded yet? Surely he has time for a few more minutes before he has to get ready for drills. Just a few more minutes before Merlin bustles in, babbling about rising and shining and lazy fucking daisies.

Arthur sinks back into a doze, basking in the peace and-

Utter silence.

Reality realigns and snaps into place - as much as such a thing is possible, considering that Arthur isn’t actually awake.

Fighting his way out from under the covers, Arthur tumbles from the bed, almost falling on his face in his haste.

Now that awareness has come, a familiar, aching emptiness has followed in its wake.

He would give anything, _anything at all_ , to see Merlin’s bright smile, to be torn from sleep by his over-eager voice. To feel his hands as he drags Arthur from the bed, his fingers feather light as they tug Arthur’s clothes into place.

Forcing out a long, shaky exhale past the clenching of his heart, Arthur stoically dresses himself.

There’s no time for this, he reminds himself firmly. There’s work to be done.

*

Time passes differently in dream-Camelot, Arthur already knows this.

It still takes him one and a half nights in the real world to scour the castle again, top to bottom, but this time he stays focused.

He finds nothing, no one.

He leaves Gaius’ chambers for last, but they don’t turn up anything useful either. Arthur found out early on that any texts - books or otherwise - are either nonsensical or empty. It seems dreams do not hold the written word well - or at all.

*

On the third night, standing in front of Merlin’s tiny, overflowing wardrobe, Arthur clutches one of Merlin’s neckerchiefs between trembling fingers.

It’s the red one, his favourite. The one Merlin wore the last time Arthur saw him, bent over Arthur, holding onto him desperately as hot tears fell from his eyes onto Arthur’s skin.

When Arthur presses it to his nose he smells nothing but emptiness.

*

Days blur together.

Arthur misses lectures, misses parties, misses phone calls.

He spends most of his time asleep. All he cares about is missing Merlin.

All he wants is to stop missing him.

*

The longer Arthur spends in dream-Camelot, the more he realises its imperfections. Or, rather, a lack thereof.

Everything is too bright, too perfect.

It’s almost like a painting, Arthur thinks as he leads his horse along the familiar path towards the Darkling Woods. A detailed, overly romantic imprint of a memory.

Once he’s started leaving the castle, Arthur noticed that things are either too sharp, or out of focus. It’s less quiet here. There’s birds and the wind whipping the trees, but it all reminds him of those stupid nature sound recordings that people often use to meditate, or to help them fall asleep. The irony certainly isn’t lost on him.

He urges on his horse. This is his fourth excursion into wider Camelot.

The sun is high in the sky, has been hovering there for far longer than any natural day would allow.

Still, Arthur doesn’t sweat, his horse doesn’t tire.

He smells flowers, but they smell like an idea, not the actual thing.

*

He leaves Lake Avalon for last.

Honestly, he thinks that if he ever has to return there, it’ll be too soon, but he’s desperate. He’s been _everywhere else_.

To Ealdor, twice. To every nook and cranny of the stupid Darkling Woods, the Forest of Ascetir, of Brechfa - seriously, he’s fucking sick of trees.

He went to Idirsholas, to Ismere, picked his way through the Labyrinth of Gedref. He paddled across to the Isle of the Blessed, rode through Odin’s empty lands to Tintagel. He spent almost an entire day asleep to fight his way across the Perilous Lands to the Dark Tower.

There’s nowhere else left to go.

When Arthur breaks from the treeline, he finds the light changed. For once, the sun is low.

It’s dawn, he realises and his stomach plummets.

He dismounts, leaving his docile destrier behind as he slowly picks his way forward.

He reaches the spot, _that_ spot, and his knees almost give. He stares sightlessly for endless, torturous moments.

They’d been so close.

Arthur clenches his hands into shaking fists.

They’d been _so close_.

Eyes burning, he turns away from the place he could _swear_ holds the imprint of their past, fallen bodies. There’s no time for self-indulgence.

*

The lake stretches like a mirror before him.

The sun has inched a little higher, but not by much. If this were real, Arthur is sure he’d be feeling the chill of a clear spring morning, carrying that special bite that only a body of water can.

Everything is calm and so _fucking_ quiet.

“I don’t know what else to do,” Arthur says. It comes out hoarse and tremulous and nothing at all like the king he used to be. “Where am I supposed to go from here?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, but barely feels it. Somehow, it’s that tiny thing that pushes him over.

“What do you want?!” The shout pierces the silence like a blade, the words echoing strangely across the lake. “What more do you want from me, huh?! What is all this?! Some sort of test?! Is it-” Arthur falters, throat closing up. “Is it punishment? For being a blind fool and- and realising too late?”

He’s not talking about the magic.

And for all that his knees have held strong, Arthur finds himself unable to stay upright a moment longer. He sinks onto the damp ground, wetness imprinting onto breeches without the accompanying, uncomfortable sensation.

“Please, Merlin,” Arthur whispers, fingers sinking deeply into wet earth. “I can’t do this without you, so please. _Help me_.”

Silence falls like a vacuum and Arthur numbly wonders if this is what it’s like in space. Where the tiniest of breaches can suck it all away into nothingness.

A soundless breeze washes over him, the lake’s surface rippling, distorting clouds and trees. Something gleams.

At first, Arthur thinks it’s just the sun’s reflection, but when he leans in, bends closer, he sees it again.

“Excalibur,” Arthur breathes.

And he’s ready to throw himself in, clothes and all, when something else, even more wondrous happens. A silvery blue orb, the same kind that once guided Arthur to safety on his quest to procure the Mortaeus flower.

“It was you.” Arthur’s heart constricts. Because of course it was, _of course_.

The orb rises, slow and unhurried. It breaks the surface without disturbing the water and comes to hover right in front of Arthur’s face. Entranced, Arthur reaches for it with trembling hands.

Warmth touches his fingertips, caresses his palms as Arthur cups it between them. His skin tingles, nerve endings sparking from the thrum of pure, unadulterated energy. Magic. It touches something deep within him, connecting to it like a missing piece slotting into place.

This, this is the feeling Arthur’s been chasing. It’s what he’s been desperate to find in Merlin’s sheets, or when clutching his scentless clothes.

Eyes burning fiercely, Arthur brings the orb closer, feels the gentle kiss of it against his cheek.

_I’ve missed you_ , Arthur wants to say. _I’ve missed you so fucking much._

But that’s not how he wants to say it, not when he can’t be certain that Merlin will hear it. He’s already wasted one lifetime keeping things locked inside, he’ll be damned if he does it again.

“Show me,” he murmurs instead. “Show me where you are.”

The orb hums, pulsing gently, and Arthur releases it with great reluctance. It rises and Arthur with it, when he remembers his sword at the bottom of the lake. He looks back at it wistfully, but the orb, now in motion, does not pause.

And so Arthur follows, turning his back on Excalibur, leaving it behind.

*

The orb sets a swift pace and Arthur spends the entirety of the journey deeply terrified that he’s going to wake up before they’ve reached their destination.

He’s led south, bypassing the castle in a generous arch that steers them clear of the Darkling Woods. They enter the woods again eventually, and it finally dawns on Arthur where they’re headed. It’s a little embarrassing, really, that it’s taken him this long to figure it out, though the significance is largely lost on him.

Despite hours on horseback, the sun has barely moved at all by the time they reach the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Arthur lets out an almighty sigh of relief, fervently thanking anyone and anything that has kept him from waking up.

Knees weak, Arthur dismounts, the orb waiting patiently for him to find his footing, before setting out once more.

Heart fluttering like a panicked bird within the cage of his ribs, Arthur seeks and clings to the past strength of a king long dead.

The mossy ground is uneven and slippery, and Arthur mutters curses every few steps when his balance is challenged. For all its steadfastness before, the sun seems suddenly in a hurry to disappear and dusk is upon them when the orb finally stops at the mouth of a cave.

“Of course it’s a cave,” Arthur mutters, desperately grasping for levity. “At least we won’t have to worry about a light.”

The orb bounces once and Arthur smiles, small and strained. He steps forward into darkness and cannot shake the feeling that he’s walking straight into the throat of a great beast, waiting to swallow him whole.

Clenching his teeth, Arthur pushes onwards.

*

The ceiling is low and Arthur fights a strange sense of claustrophobia that he’s certain he didn’t have in his past life.

Stones skitter away from him, turning the path treacherous. Throughout it all, the orb stays close to him, as though sensing his disquiet.

When he first sees the lights in the distance, Arthur thinks it might be his eyes having gone funny after staring at the orb for too long. But then more and more blink into existence, like stars across the night sky.

Finally, the narrow space gives way to a broad cavern. The crystal-studded ceiling reaches high above him, an ethereal glow driving back lingering shadows. The orb drifts away, putting distance between them for the first time.

Alarmed, Arthur steps after it, but the clusters of crystals makes it hard to follow and the orb has already drifted further off.

“Hang on,” Arthur mutters, picking his way across.

When he looks back up, he finds the orb lingering, hovering high above the ground. It might be the surrounding light, but Arthur could’ve sworn it’s grown dimmer.

And then it grows dimmer still with every new step he takes and Arthur doesn’t know what that _means_ , only that he doesn’t want to lose it.

“Don’t-” he pleads, unable to do anything but watch as the orb swirls, then gently dissolves.

Arthur stares, bereft and with mounting panic. He swallows it all down, calling himself to heel.

He’s a king, he reminds himself. Or, at least, he used to be.

Throwing back his shoulders, Arthur crests the final ridge of rock and crystal, and freezes.

“Oh.” It leaves him in a strange, strangled choke, because there he is, _there is_ \- “ _Mer_ lin.”

Arthur’s knees hit the ground as he half falls, half throws himself down at Merlin’s side.

He looks just as Arthur remembers him, curled up asleep, _asleep_ -

“Only you, Merlin.”

A rough sound loosens from his throat; it’s meant to be a laugh, but comes out a sob. By the time Arthur has hauled Merlin into his arms and is cradling him close, Arthur has given up control and is muffling raw, helpless sounds in that dammed red neckerchief.

Through it all, Merlin never stirs, and when Arthur touches him, his skin is like ice. It should be frightening, but Arthur can _feel_ him. Can feel the softness of Merlin’s cheek, the thick mess of his dark hair, and that means Merlin is _different_. He’s not part of this dreamscape, he’s not just another prop in this fucking painting.

It means that Merlin is _real_.

Arthur crushes him close, frantically forcing his emotions into a semblance of order. He’s utterly _terrified_ of letting go.

“Merlin,” Arthur mutters finally, minutes or hours later. He draws back despite the physical pain every tiny bit of space costs him. Cupping Merlin’s icy face, Arthur rubs agitated thumbs across the beautiful, perfect lines of his cheekbones. He wants to tell him to wake up, _please, I’m here now, come back to me_ , but his throat is too tight, his breath still too erratic. “Merlin.”

Arthur casts about for options, a plan. His thoughts jump around in almost nonsensical patterns. He considers picking Merlin up, getting him out of here and into the sunlight. But would it really make a difference, considering none of this is real?

He looks back down at Merlin’s peaceful face, runs a finger in a whisper-soft caress along Merlin’s lips, just to feel them, to feel him breathe.

Sleeping beauty, Arthur thinks, half-crazed. Then pauses, because for all the ridiculousness of it, he _is_ a prince. A _king_ , even. And magic is real, and so is true love’s-

It’s the barest brush of lips, the ghost of a caress bestowed far too late.

And then Merlin is gasping, choking on air, convulsing in Arthur’s arms.

“Fuck, easy,” Arthur murmurs, clutching Merlin close once more. “Easy.”

Merlin’s grip is strong, his fingers digging in deep, nails leaving behind vibrant half-moons. Arthur wants to brand them into his skin forever.

“Ah-Arthur,” Merlin gasps, pressing against Arthur as though seeking to fuse them into a single entity. “Arthur, _Arthur._ ”

Having only just passed that same stage himself, Arthur simply cradles Merlin closer, running greedy fingers through his hair, palming along his spine.

“I’m here,” Arthur murmurs, finding the gap between Merlin’s stupid neckerchief and glorious, _gorgeous_ skin. He sticks his nose into it, presses his whole fucking _face_ into it. “It’s alright. I’m here, now.”

Merlin’s grip on Arthur’s hair is tight enough to sting and Arthur wants nothing more than to throw him down on the floor of this very cave. To cover him with his body, to claim him, to _love him_ \- to do all the things he always wanted and never let himself think about.

They draw apart, then back together; foreheads meeting as panted breaths mingle in the small space between them.

Merlin touches his cheek, cups his jaw. His fingers have warmed, but only barely. Arthur captures them with his own, sheltering them between his palms, rubbing gently. It’s not as effective as he’d hoped, so he reluctantly pulls back to bring them to his lips, lungs fluttering as he blows heat into Merlin’s skin.

Merlin stares at him, eyes wide and wet. Always with the tears.

Tugging Merlin’s hands close, Arthur traps them one-handedly against his chest and the wild beat of his heart. With his free hand, he gently rubs away tear tracks on too-pale cheeks. He never could bear seeing Merlin cry.

Merlin makes a soft, tortured sound and presses into Arthur’s touch, new tears tracing old paths. His fingers, still blanketed by Arthur’s palm, curl into his tunic.

“How long?” Merlin asks, hoarse and overwrought. Even so, his voice is the best thing Arthur’s ever heard. “How long since you remembered?”

“A month?” Arthur considers briefly, straining to make sense of time. “Maybe a bit more. But how did you-?”

Merlin sighs. He frees his hands, but only to run them up along Arthur’s chest, making him shiver. They cup his shoulders, holding firm, fingertips just shy of brushing skin. Even without the direct contact, Arthur feels raw and flayed apart.

“It was one of the conditions for the spell.”

Arthur frowns. “Spell?”

Merlin’s face crumples, body curling inwards as more tears rush to the surface.

“I was suppose to wait, I was supposed to-” Merlin’s grip tightens painfully. “But Arthur, I couldn’t, I- I couldn’t take it. You don’t know how-” His breathing is coming too fast and he’s looking at Arthur as though he expects to be sentenced to the block any moment. “I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t be without you-”

Arthur drags him back in with a gently murmured _Hey_ , a feeling of cold mortification creeping in.

“After you- After you were gone, I stopped ageing,” Merlin whispers in a rush, gulping down tears. “Kilgharrah, the great dragon he- I was told that you’d come back and I waited, I waited for _so long_ , but Arthur I couldn’t take it anymore, I was going insane, I-” Merlin presses his wet face deeper against Arthur’s shoulder. “I failed you, I keep failing you-”

“Merlin,” Arthur rasps, drawing back because he needs to see Merlin’s face, needs to- “Merlin, look at me.” He grips the nape of Merlin’s neck, squeezing hard. Merlin looks at him. “You’ve never failed me, alright? _Never_. You-”

“But I did!” Merlin wails, tears still flowing, still falling. He looks destroyed, inconsolable, as though a stopper that had been stuck for endless years has finally come loose and released a flood. “Arthur, you _died_. You were _dead_! I was meant to protect you, to save you, but I was too late and you _died_ and I’m- I’m _so fucking sorry_ -”

Arthur yanks him back into his arms, too raw to be gentle.

“Stop that,” he orders roughly. “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could, do you hear? _I’m_ sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry! I was blind and so _fucking stupid_ and I never, ever wanted to leave you.”

Merlin makes a sound of pure misery.

“I love you.” It’s small and broken, every syllable heavy and tight with pain.

And Arthur wanted to hear it, wanted it desperately, wanted it almost as much as he wants to say it back, but not like this, not-

“Merlin,” is all that comes out of his too-tight throat.

“Sorry, I-” Merlin draws back, rubbing roughly at his eyes.

Arthur catches his hands. “Stop apologising.”

And then he’s leaning in, salt bursting on his tongue as he catches the remaining tears with gentle kisses.

Merlin lets out a hiccoughing sigh and a small, wounded noise. Their fingers twine together, holding tightly.

Arthur takes his time mapping Merlin’s face with his lips, lingering in all the places he’s always longed to explore. Merlin leans into him, nuzzling him in turn, trembling fingers carding through Arthur’s hair and leaving shivery trails in their wake.

“I’ve been looking for you.” Arthur murmurs it like a secret into the small hollow beneath one of Merlin’s ridiculous, lovely ears. “Really made me work for it. I was almost at wit’s end.”

Merlin lets out a breathy laugh and Arthur’s heart soars, unbearably relieved that they’re finally moving past the tears.

“I knew you’d figure it out,” Merlin says, so full of love and affection that Arthur can hardly stand it.

He draws back, needing to see that smile. There’s a smart retort ready on his tongue, only Arthur never gets to utter it, because the world chooses that moment to lurch around him.

Vision blurring, Arthur sucks in a sharp breath. Merlin steadies him, voice alarmed.

“Arthur, what-”

Something is tugging viciously at Arthur’s insides, his stomach churning in protest. And he knows what this is, he _knows-_

“Fuck,” he gasps, clutching at Merlin like a drowning man. “I’m waking up.”

Merlin is silent, and when Arthur’s eyes snap to him, he finds him pale and grim. It makes him look older, harder, more like the sorcerer that had deceived a team of stray saxons and killed them when their cover was blown. More like someone who could raze a battlefield with lightning.

“You’ll be here when I get back, won’t you?” Arthur rushes to ask, but Merlin’s face only shutters more.

He sighs, cups Arthur’s cheek.

“You won’t be able to come back,” he says gently.

Panic claws at Arthur like a wild beast, his grip on Merlin tightening into something painful.

“What are you saying? Are you- are you saying I won’t see you again?”

He sounds young, helpless, and nothing at all like a king. But then Merlin is there, a comforting weight in his lap, bony knees pressed tightly on either side of Arthur’s thighs.

“Oh, Arthur, no,” Merlin murmurs, lips hot and slightly chapped against the corner of Arthur’s mouth. Their foreheads press together and Arthur can barely breathe for the memories. “Of course you will. But the spell has been broken; we can’t come back here. All this-” He gestures vaguely. “Will fade once you wake. It’s served its purpose.”

“But I’ll see you,” Arthur insists, barely registering anything past that fact. “You’ll come find me?”

Merlin brushes back Arthur’s tousled fringe. “I will.”

It’s getting harder to fight, the roiling in Arthur’s stomach almost unbearable.

“Promise me.”

Merlin’s eyes are fierce, gold lingering in their depths.

“I promise. Just-” He bites his lip.

“What?” Arthur demands, sweat breaking across his forehead from the strain of keeping himself here. “What is it?”

“It’s just that-” Merlin hesitates, then pushes on. “I might not remember, at first. It’s a side effect of the spell. So just…don’t give up on me, alright?”

“Never.” And it’s the most solemn oath he’s ever sworn in either life.

He lurches forward, intent on having this one thing before it all slides away, before he has to wait again, miss Merlin again.

But Merlin’s slender finger comes between them, pressing gently to Arthur’s lips before they can meet. Arthur rears back, hurt and puzzled, the knot in his stomach twisting unbearably tighter.

Merlin smiles at him, a little sad, but warm and hopeful as well.

“I want next time to be real,” he whispers, then leans in to press lush, beautiful lips to the back of his own finger, so close Arthur swears he can feel it, aches for want of it. But then it’s over and Merlin draws back, taking his finger with him. “Now stop fighting it. I promise I’ll see you soon.”

Arthur clutches tight to bony hips. “You fucking better, you clotpole.”

The last thing he sees is Merlin’s smile, bright and real.

*

Going off the pills is hard, almost as hard as having to face the real world once more.

Arthur drags himself from his flat and to uni, is swarmed by people he has trouble remembering. Pat fields the worst of it, the rest is handled by Arthur fake-smiling and nodding in random places throughout conversations.

He feels like shit, barely manages to eat, and lies awake every single night for two weeks. Instead, he falls asleep in his lectures, at the library and, on one memorable occasion, at his favourite coffee shop just off campus.

He dreams of nothing at all.

*

Week three dawns grey and full of rain, more befitting autumn than early summer.

Pat rings him out of bed by obnoxiously leaning on his doorbell and Arthur curses him the entire time it takes him to get dressed and fill a thermos with tea - decaf, because he’s trying to be sensible for once.

“I think you’ve a new neighbour,” Pat comments, nibbling on a cereal bar he found in Arthur’s cupboard and Arthur knows, for a fact, he hates. “I saw a moving van downstairs.”

“Oh?” Arthur asks, barely listening.

He’s chucking random printouts and the odd book into his bag, closes it, then remembers the charger for his laptop. He chucks that in, too.

“You alright, Pen?” Pat asks, finally abandoning the cereal bar. Arthur grabs it and stuffs it in his own mouth with a grunt that he hopes is a satisfying enough answer. It isn’t, apparently, because Pat pushes on. “You still taking those meds?”

Arthur hauls his bag onto his shoulder and makes a shooing gesture towards the door. They’re going to be late. Again.

“Nah,” he answers, hoping to throw Pat enough of a bone to leave him the fuck alone. “Trying to get back into a natural rhythm.”

Pat looks dubious. “You sure that’s a good idea? Because, no offence, mate, but by the looks of it, it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“I’ve got it under control,” Arthur says curtly, slamming the door and locking it.

Pat holds up his hands in surrender and Arthur’s shoulders relax when no more interrogation follows. They pass the moving van at an almost-jog, Arthur too focused on getting to class on time to dwell on it. It’s probably some fellow posh student who’s shunned living in the halls, same as Arthur.

They get a plethora of dirty looks when they stumble in, fifteen minutes late.

*

Arthur manages half a night’s sleep Monday night, the other half is spent staring at the ceiling and thinking of Merlin.

It ends with a frantic wank and come-stained sheets that Arthur is too tired to deal with. He rolls away from the wet spot and sticks his head beneath a pillow. He wonders if he should look into getting silk sheets, maybe something with brocade…

He falls asleep just as the sun rises.

*

Tuesday is his least class-heavy day, so Arthur doesn’t bother getting up and sleeps till late afternoon.

After stumbling from the shower and half-heartedly stuffing his sheets into the washer, he realises he has absolutely nothing edible left in his kitchen. Even the fucking cereal bars are gone.

Sighing, he fights his way into jeans and a hoodie with the name of his college plastered across the front, very carefully not dwelling on how much he misses Merlin’s hands on him. Grabbing his wallet and a phone that is once more overflowing with notifications, Arthur stuffs his feet into a pair of boat shoes and shoulders his way out of the flat.

He’s just about to start down the hall when the door next to his own swings open. Must be the new neighbour, Arthur thinks, and though he’s feeling anything but social, he supposes he might as well get it out of the way.

Turning around, the politely vapid greeting promptly dies on his tongue. Because the person who just stepped out of his next-door flat is-

“Merlin,” he says, giving not a single fuck at how breathy and desperate the name falls between them.

Merlin looks up, their eyes locking. He tilts his head, frowning gently.

“Sorry? Have we met?”

Arthur’s heart plummets, tearing a hole in his stomach on its way to the floor. But Merlin had warned him about this, had begged Arthur to be patient. So Arthur grabs for long-rusted tactical skills, gaze quickly sweeping Merlin’s door. He lets out a silent sigh of relief.

“It’s-ah-” Arthur gestures. “The nameplate on your door.”

Merlin’s face clears, a small huffing laugh tumbling out. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”

Arthur fervently hopes his smile is only half as besotted as it feels.

“I’m Arthur.” The name is both strange and familiar on his tongue. He waves at his own plate. “Penbrook.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Arthur,” Merlin says and Arthur tries his best to hide how it makes him quake on the spot. When Merlin holds out his hand, the memory of their first meeting is so vivid Arthur’s vision swims. Only this time, Arthur hastens to grab it, hold on to it. “Merlin Emrys, but you already knew that.”

Merlin winks and Arthur is mortified to feel heat blooming in his cheeks.

For the first time, it occurs to Arthur that Merlin is older than him. In the dreamscape, when Arthur had found Merlin in the cave of crystals, Arthur had been too overwhelmed to think on it. But here, now, planted firmly in reality, Arthur can’t help but notice it.

Merlin looks the same as Arthur remembers him, but what Arthur remembers is himself, a king ten years older than he is now. Arthur never asked, but he knows that Merlin had been younger than him by at least a year, more likely two. That makes Merlin, what, 28?

Only then Arthur remembers that actually, Merlin never died in the first place and that thought is simply too big, too unfathomable to ponder out here in the hall with a Merlin who doesn’t know him.

“Well, it was lovely meeting you,” Merlin is saying, still smiling, breaking into Arthur’s jumbled thoughts. “I don’t mean to keep you, I’m sure we’ll see each other often enough.”

_No, no, no_ , Arthur thinks frantically. There’s no way he’s letting Merlin slip away like this.

“Actually, I was just on my way to get some food,” Arthur blurts, inelegant and about as regal as a toad. He knows his cheeks are on fucking fire by now, and what the hell, he’s never been a blusher. Determination burning bright, Arthur pushes on, noting that Merlin looks amused more than anything. “Would you like to join?”

Merlin looks him up and down and Arthur’s knees nearly buckle, both because of the heat he finds there and with the relief of having found it.

“Is that why you’re holding my hand hostage?”

Arthur drops Merlin’s hand as if burned, then watches with dizzying longing as Merlin bites his plush bottom lip to suppress a laugh.

“Sorry,” Arthur says, though despite the persistent flush in his cheeks, he sounds not the least bit apologetic. He discreetly rubs sweaty palms against his thighs. “So, food?”

Merlin’s lips quirk and really, have his eyes always been this blue?

“You don’t give up easy, I give you that.”

Arthur licks his lips, fighting the urge to rock on his heels. “Is that a no?”

Merlin’s eyes crinkle as he laughs.

“It’s definitely not a no.” He steps away from his door, finally closing it properly. “Lead the way, Arthur Penbrook.”

Arthur almost feels the urge to correct him, but it passes as quickly as it came.

Arthur Pendragon had been an arrogant arsehole, too caught up in his own bullshit to realise what’s right in front of him. Arthur Penbrook won’t make that mistake.

*

“So, you’re a student?”

They’ve found a little nook in a small bistro down the street. It’s late enough that the majority of the student population has moved their exploits to the pubs by now and Arthur is grateful for the low key environment.

“English Lit,” Arthur answers, stirring his coffee - decaf again. He’s already vibrating with nerves, no need to help that along. At Merlin’s surprised look, Arthur can’t help a smug smile. “Yeah, I know, no one guesses that one.”

Merlin looks caught out and Arthur wants to throw the fucking coffee aside and crawl over the table until he can taste the sheepish twist of Merlin’s mouth.

“Sorry, it’s just-” He gestures vaguely and Arthur laughs, taking pity on him.

“It’s fine, really. I get it.” He takes the wooden stick from the cup, giving the end a delicate lick, his eyes never leaving Merlin’s. He watches Merlin watching him, can see his throat bob as he swallows. “I’m on the Boat Club, though, if that makes you feel better.”

“Rowing, really?” Merlin’s gaze slides blatantly along Arthur’s arms. “I’d have pegged you more as a footie guy. Or maybe rugby.”

Arthur smirks. “Clearly, you’re shite at guessing.”

“Oi!” Merlin kicks him gently under the table and Arthur takes the opportunity to hook their legs together.

Merlin gives him an intense look, but leaves his leg where it is. Arthur feels lightheaded at the rush of victory.

“So now you know what I do, do I have to guess what you’re into now?”

The double entendre is blatant and shameless and Arthur has absolutely no regrets whatsoever. Merlin seems to share the sentiment, because his smile turns a little sharper in turn.

“You’re certainly welcome to try.”

Arthur takes a sip, the hot coffee doing little to cool him down.

He has not the faintest notion of how that spell works and what it means. Where Merlin had been before he arrived at Oxford, or how long he’d been asleep in that bloody cave.

Still, he tries to think about what Merlin used to like, what things about the modern world could possibly interest him. Arthur might’ve been an ignorant idiot at times, but Merlin had still been his dearest friend for almost ten years. They’d practically lived in each other’s pockets, it’s impossible not to have picked up a few things.

“You’re a writer,” Arthur hazards, because if there’s one thing Merlin had always excelled at, it’s writing Arthur’s speeches. “Probably someone who offers editing services, writes the odd academic paper on obscure subjects. How am I doing so far?”

Merlin is staring at him, aghast. “How the hell did you do that?”

Arthur’s chest swells. “I was right, then?”

“Fuck, yes. Spot on, actually.”

Merlin still looks incredulous and Arthur promises himself that as soon as Merlin’s memories return, he’ll never let him live this down.

“So what’re your obscure papers about, then?”

“Arthurian legend, mostly.”

Arthur chokes on his coffee. Merlin reaches out, concerned, grasping his arm and handing him a napkin with the other.

“You okay?”

Arthur coughs some more, then dabs at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, just. Went down the wrong way.” Merlin gives his arm a sympathetic rub, the touch light enough to qualify as a caress. Arthur bites his lip, ignoring the shudder racing down his spine. He eyes Merlin hopefully. “More coffee?”

Merlin looks at him and Arthur is a little unnerved how inscrutable he still finds him. But that’s always been the running theme with Merlin, hasn’t it? Spouting all that shit about being an open book, acting the fool, only to then flash random glimpses of his true self and leaving Arthur flailing and confused. Talk about drowning in a shallow pool.

“Sure,” is what Merlin finally says, smile back in place. “But you better be buying, posh boy.”

Arthur refrains the stupid urge to tell Merlin he’d buy him anything he wants and then some. He gets up to fetch the coffee instead.

*

“I had a really good time today.”

Merlin says it softly, as though he’s sharing a secret. They’re outside Arthur’s door, Arthur leaning back against it in a way he hopes is casual, but has far more to do with his traitorously wobbly knees.

Arthur smiles and there’s no playfulness now, no hidden edges, just a wave of pure, unadulterated happiness.

“Good,” he says quietly. “I’m glad.” He shoves his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “Does that mean we can do it again? Say, tomorrow for breakfast?”

Merlin bites his lip, head bowed. Arthur has a vague idea where this is going. He’s surprised they managed it this far without Merlin bringing it up.

“Listen, I’m kind of dreading the answer here, but how old are you, Arthur?”

Fucking bingo. Arthur suppresses an eyeroll - that fucking spell.

_If only you knew_ , Arthur thinks, not a little hysterical.

“What does that matter? Age is just a number and all that.”

Arthur waves a hand, relieved when it comes off casual instead of anxious.

Merlin gives him a severe look. “Arthur.”

And it’s so achingly familiar Arthur’s afraid he might actually burst into tears on the spot. He swallows it down.

“I’m 20, okay? And whatever you’re thinking, just don’t. You said you had a good time today, that you liked spending time with me, yes?” Merlin sighs and his nod is small, but very much unmistakable. Arthur pushes on. “So have breakfast with me tomorrow.”

Merlin’s lips pull upwards and Arthur might actually go insane with how much he wants them on his own.

“You really don’t give up.”

Arthur fixes him with a look, fervently hoping to convey all the things he cannot say just yet.

“Never.”

*

They have breakfast the next day, which somehow ends up with them sprawled across Arthur’s couch and watching telly. Arthur wouldn’t be able to tell you what’s on if someone put a sword to his throat. He’s far too busy fighting to keep his hands to himself and to keep from vibrating straight out of his skin with every brush of their arms, their thighs.

Merlin is careful to stick to his own end of the couch, but the heated glances are as heavy and exhilarating as any physical caress.

They part in the late afternoon, though Arthur has a feeling neither of them actually want to. Arthur certainly doesn’t.

But he lets Merlin leave with little more than a fleeting brush of their hands. It’s electrifying and Arthur barely makes it to his bed in time, almost giving in and jerking his dick with his still tingling hand right there in the hallway, against the closed door.

After, lying sideways across his bed with cooling come drying on his skin and clothes, Arthur finds himself thinking that even if Merlin never remembers him at all, Arthur will die happy just for the privilege of being by his side.

*

By the time the weekend hits, Merlin has been to Arthur’s flat every single day.

They still haven’t touched beyond furtive brushes and lingering grabs of arms and shoulders, and Arthur thinks his dick is in serious danger of falling off from the amount of wanking it’s had to endure, but Arthur can say for certain that he’s never been happier.

Which is of course exactly when their private little bubble is burst.

They’re on the couch, the telly on but with the volume so low it’s all but muted. The remnants of their breakfast are still strewn across the coffee table, an empty pack of cereal bars lying on its side, sticking precariously over the edge. Merlin actually appreciates Arthur’s cereal bars - there’s a reason he’s always been Arthur’s favourite.

Merlin’s just finished a giggling rendition of a lame joke from some secret, never-ending list of lamest jokes. Arthur fucking adores him, him and his atrocious jokes and stupid smiles and beautiful laughs.

The shrill sound of the doorbell cuts across their merriment, the obnoxious lean-on-it-till-the-door-opens a surefire way of alerting Arthur as to who he’ll find on the other end. He frowns, mind flittering through his schedule for a clue as to what Pat could possibly be here for, when it suddenly dawns.

Arthur groans. “Fuck.”

Merlin raises his brows in askance.

Arthur jumps from the couch, wanting, if nothing else, to shut that bloody doorbell up.

“I completely forgot that I’ve got rowing practice this morning.”

Merlin makes to get up. “Do you want me to-?”

Arthur sticks out a hand as if to pin him into place. “No, stay. You can meet my sorry excuse of a friend.”

Merlin doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure-”

“Yes.”

It’s Arthur’s no-nonsense, shut-up-I’m-the-King-voice. Merlin rolls his eyes, but stays put.

Pat bustles in, a knapsack with their rowing team’s logo slung over his shoulder.

“I swear to god, Pen, I’m starting to feel like your fucking mother-” He breaks off at the sight of Merlin, now perched a little less causally on Arthur’s couch. “Uhm, hello?”

Arthur snorts. “Merlin, Pat; Pat, Merlin. Merlin’s the new tenant who moved in next door.”

The last bit is added for Pat’s benefit. He looks between them, a knowing glint already sparking in his dark eyes.

“Neighbour, right,” Pat drawls, then seemingly seems to recover his manners. There’s something to be said about being surrounded by old money from birth. He sticks out his hand for Merlin. “Arjun Patel.”

Merlin gives it a polite shake. “Merlin Emrys.”

“It’s a pleasure meet you. I’d like to say Pen’s told me all about you, but…”

Arthur shoves his elbow into Pat’s ribs. Merlin, thankfully, looks nothing but amused, though his brows do lift a little at Arthur’s nickname.

“Well, he’s certainly told me about you,” Merlin returns, that familiar wicked gleam in his eye that Arthur’s always loved, even all the times it drove him up the wall.

Pat looks wrong-footed at that, turning surprised eyes on Arthur, who gives him a shrug and a badly suppressed smirk.

“But I was just on my way out,” Merlin continues, getting to his feet. “It was nice meeting you.” This directed at Pat, before he turns to Arthur, his whole expression melting into something warm and intimate, full of shared things, past and present. “I’ll see you later, Arthur.”

The door is barely closed when Pat whirls around, eyebrows glued to his hairline. “ _Arthur_?”

Arthur scoffs, crossing into the hall and retrieving his own, readily packed knapsack from one of the hooks.

“Piss off, Pat. And get a move on, or we’ll be late.”

*

Pat, of course, becomes absolutely insufferable after that.

Arthur has no intention of sharing a single thing about his and Merlin’s relationship, though he likewise makes no effort to conceal his feelings. What would be the point? Merlin’s not going anywhere, not if Arthur has anything to say about it. Not to mention that Arthur already spent one lifetime suppressing and hiding the fuck out of his love for Merlin and where Arthur is concerned, that’s already one lifetime too many.

Still, Pat’s approach leaves much to be desired.

Arthur sighs, putting his phone into ‘do not disturb’ mode and dumping it on the table.

“Pat’s been badgering the shit out of me.”

Merlin grins. “He does seem the type.”

Arthur groans and lets himself slump dramatically against Merlin’s side.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

It’s the closest they’ve been as of yet and Arthur, heart thumping wildly, steels himself for Merlin’s inevitable retreat.

It never comes.

Instead, Arthur feels Merlin shift against him, the tentative weight of Merlin’s arm sliding across his shoulders.

Arthur can’t help the hungry little sound, nor the way his face seeks out the soft, familiar warmth of Merlin’s irresistible neck. Merlin pulls him close, closer, his fingers slipping into Arthur’s hair, the same way they’d done in the Crystal Cave.

Only that this time, they’re not trapped within the realm of a spell. They’re not being torn apart by past memories and bitter regrets.

“You’re really serious about this,” Merlin says, sounding almost reverent.

Arthur knows the tone well, and though it wasn’t quite a question, he’s still quick to answer.

“You have no idea.”

Merlin turns his head, lips catching warm and soft on the sharp edge of Arthur’s jaw. Arthur pushes closer, wraps greedy arms around him and holds on tight.

“I think I might have some idea,” Merlin murmurs, lips trailing higher.

Arthur is trembling all over, hands unsteady but unrelenting as he reaches up and gives an unapologetic yank at Merlin’s stupid hipster scarf. Because of course out of all his habits, this is what had to stick around. It gives easily beneath his impatient fingers, and Arthur shoves it aside in his quest for naked skin.

He finds Merlin’s pulse fluttering erratically just beneath the surface. Arthur brushes his lips over it, wants to feel the beat of it; Merlin warm and alive and _real_ against him. It jumps, Merlin’s breath hitching hotly against Arthur’s cheek. He feels Merlin’s shiver, his own body answering in kind.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers - a gasp, a plea.

Arthur opens his mouth and sucks.

Merlin jerks against him, a deep, breathless moan lodged somewhere in his chest. Arthur makes a low, starved sound, grabbing Merlin’s deceptively slender-looking shoulders and bearing him down into the cushions. He just wants to feel him, wants to-

Merlin’s thighs fall open, his hands strong and needy as they yank Arthur down between them. Arthur groans, hips slotting into place, pushing the hard line of his dick against Merlin’s own.

“Fuck, Merlin,” Arthur says hotly, breath almost obscenely loud as it bursts in uneven pants from his lungs.

He grinds down, driven unbidden by desire and desperation. Merlin arches against him with a moan.

“We shouldn’t-” Merlin starts, then bites back another sound.

Arthur really wishes he wouldn’t, wants to hear it all.

“Shouldn’t what?” Arthur pants, arm trembling where it supports his weight against the armrest.

By now, they’ve fallen into a slow, dirty grind that is sure to make Arthur come within the next ten minutes. Arthur bites back a pathetic whimper, balls aching and dick chafing against the line of his boxers and jeans. He claws at Merlin’s hip.

“Rush this,” Merlin grits out, his long legs a cage for Arthur’s needy hips, scalp stinging from the tightening, convulsive curl of Merlin’s fingers in his hair.

Arthur laughs, low and a little unhinged. He mouths at Merlin’s jaw, tastes salt in the divot of his collarbone.

“Believe me, we aren’t.”

Merlin’s hold shifts, turning into a different kind of desperation, his whisper almost too soft to be audible.

“It’s just, it’s all so _much_ -”

Arthur’s heart lurches, hips stilling as protectiveness overpowers desire.

He lets go of Merlin’s hip, finding instead the achingly familiar place at the nape of Merlin’s neck. His lips shape soft, undemanding kisses along Merlin’s cheekbone, fingers painting aimless, soothing caresses into whichever part of Merlin they can find.

“I know, it’s alright.”

Merlin only holds him tighter, voice strained and _scared_.

“I feel like I’m going mad.” His eyelashes brush Arthur’s skin. They feel wet and Arthur aches for him. “All I can think of is that I don’t ever want you to leave me. I’m so fucking terrified I’ll lose you and I-”

“You’re not mad,” Arthur says, low and fierce. He draws back, needs to see Merlin’s face, needs Merlin to see his. “And you’re not going to lose me, Merlin, I promise. I’m not going anywhere, not this time.”

Merlin blinks. “This time?”

Arthur bites his lip, silently cursing himself.

Merlin is still gazing up at him, all wide eyes and sharp cheekbones. He looks lost and young and so much like the boy that first came to Camelot all those years ago. So much like the devastated man Arthur found ensnared in a dreamworld because the pain of being without Arthur became too much.

Arthur falters, thoughts stumbling and zeroing in. The realisation that follows all but bowels him over.

“Oh my god,” Arthur breathes, stunned by his own stupidity. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

Merlin frowns. “Arthur, what-”

Arthur cups his face, presses palms now calloused from an oar instead of a sword to the beautiful line of Merlin’s jaw.

“This time, it’s real,” Arthur whispers, and kisses him.

*

Merlin remembers on a Wednesday.

There’s far too many tears that turn already too-wet kisses even more artless. Arthur thinks he might die if he’s ever parted from Merlin’s mouth again.

Then Merlin is cursing him, and tackling him, and they tumble from the couch and upend the coffee table. But Arthur couldn’t care less, barely even notices any of it, because Merlin is straddling him, and kissing him, and grinding him into the floor with frantic, desperate shoves of his hips.

Arthur comes messily in his pants, shuddering and moaning against Merin’s hungry lips.

He definitely lasted less than ten minutes. Possibly less than five.

They make breathless plans to leave the floor, but instead only manage to cross the room in tiny increments, their lips never parting for more than ten seconds at a time.

When they finally make it to Arthur’s bedroom they’re so worked up again, sore mouths and screaming lungs notwithstanding, that they end up frantically entwined half-dressed on the rug next to the bed. This time, Arthur manages to get his hand on Merlin’s dick, still slick with come from their earlier round.

He wants to lick it, worship it, worship _him_ , but can’t yet bear the thought of missing the shape of Merlin’s lips against his own. Can’t bear the thought of missing him ever again, in any capacity.

Later, after having made a mess of each other and the rug, when their breathing is finally calming down and their kisses have turned slow and soft, Arthur ducks his head to nip at Merlin’s ear and whispers.

“So, how do you feel about silk sheets?”

The laugh that bursts from Merlin’s chest is incandescent, holding a lifetime of memories, finally set free.

And Arthur thinks, _There you are_ and bends to taste that laugh, and claims it for his own.


End file.
